


Pilgrims All

by Taz



Category: Hannibal (TV), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeking shelter from a storm, Brian Zeller meets John Reese and Sameen Shaw in a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pilgrims All

_What the hell!_ He shouldn’t have stayed so late, but…

The protective part of Zeller’s mind turned off the thought, focusing instead on the here and now—the crowded sidewalk half-way between the pathology lab and Union Station, and a predicted thunderstorm that had just starting to pelt.

Fortunately Baillie’s Pub was at hand, making it imperative that he duck inside for a quick one, or ten. He’d had every intention of getting drunk tonight, in any event, so this would be him just starting a little sooner, and save getting soaking wet. And there was always the chance, let it be admitted, that he might meet someone who might be inclined to reassure a guy that the world was not as desperately insane as it sometimes seemed to be.

Despite the old straight-backed booths and hard stools, he liked Baillie’s. The bartenders all knew him by name, knew what he drank and when to call a cab. Kasey was behind the bar. He caught her eye and, signaling to make it a double, pointed at last of the two empty seats at end, towards which he made a bee-line…

_God, don’t go there._

A man sitting at the third stool from the end turned just as Zeller was about to claim the last. Just at that moment a lurid flash of lightning split the heavens. It was followed immediately by the boom of a transformer exploding, and the lights going out.

“Hey!” Zeller yelped. Blinded, groping in the dark, a hand caught his and placed it solidly on the back of a stool.

“Got it?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”Zeller climbed up. “That was close.”

“You made it just in time.”

The man’s finely chiseled features and pale grey eyes were strobing on the back of his retinas. It took a moment before Zeller realized he had taken the wrong seat; he’d meant to claim the one at the end.

“The whole block‘s out,” he heard someone observe, as an irate voice called from the kitchen. “Can we get some light back here?!”

“Hang on!”  At the server’s station a propane lighter flared blue at the tip, and then steadied. The manager, Gary, began to light candles and insert them in cast iron holders (a touch of antique rusticity that only appeared when the prices went up after happy hour). In response, a boozy voice at a back table began to make a joyful noise: _When the lights go on again, all over the world…_ The song was promptly squelched with a grunt, and the sound of what might have been a man’s forehead impacting a solid surface.

A moment later, a piercing voice started. “Booth? Booth! Are you…?!”

It was a woman’s voice. Zeller recognized it. So did others. Baillie’s was an old FBI hangout from way back. There was a considered silence all over the room; then conversations that had been interrupted by the lights going out picked up where they’d left off. Only louder.

The stool on Zeller’s left gave squeak.

His right-hand neighbor interrogated the darkness softly. “Shaw?”

“Reese.” A woman, settling on the stool, answered him.

Tiny islands of primitive comfort began appearing all over the room, and one of the candle holders found its way down to Zeller’s end of the bar. By its glow, and the red blush of the emergency Exit sign over the door, Zeller made out the profile of the woman sitting beside him. Beautiful. As clean and precise carved as a cameo. She reached to retrieve her Manhattan from in front of him, and he caught the slightest hint of a subtle, old-fashioned perfume. _Maybe…_

He couldn’t help himself. “I didn’t mean to take your…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

That shut him down. Fortunately, Kasey materialized and put a hot scotch and lemon in front of him.

“On the house,” she said, and vanished.

Zeller picked up the drink, sipped and glanced between the man and the woman. Outside, waves of rain swept the street; there were sirens in the distance. The woman merely ignored him. Women did that. Often. This one seemed to be utterly enchanted by the multiple tiny flames that reflected from the bottles of whiskey standing on the mirrored shelves behind the bar. The man caught him looking and gave back a precise, perfunctory smile.

Both of them, it struck him, were exceptionally good-looking people, although neither appeared to be interested in changing seats with him. Clearly, they knew each other. Odd, not wanting to sit together. Professional colleagues…? And then it struck him that neither displayed anything personal. Both of them were comparably well-dressed in dark suit and black dress but no ties, no scarves, no cufflinks, no jewelry, no giveaways whatsoever. He glanced down instinctively. Couldn’t see a thing, of course, but wouldn’t have been surprised if their shoes were common well-known brands. If they showed up on a slab, he would bet there’d be no tags in their clothing. They were stripped for action. Well, Baillie’s played host to all kinds of people; some of them didn’t come to chat.

That couldn’t be said for the friends of the erstwhile singer at the back table. The conversational buzz had settled down, and the woman could be heard over it, demanding Kasey bring more hand towels to staunch her friend’s bloody nose, while ordering the people at tables nearby to tell her who had assaulted Agent Booth (Someone had to have seen!), and at the same time advising the world at large that it was perfectly safe to use cell phones during a thunder storm, it was an urban legend that electricity could follow radio waves and…

“Shaw…” The man beside Zeller, Reese, said the woman’s name again, a remonstration more in sorrow than in anger.

Shaw wasn’t having it. “He was flat,” she said. No excuses, No regrets. Zeller couldn’t help snorting, and she finally glanced his way. “Friends of yours?”

“Not friends,” he said.

“Oh?” Suddenly she looked interested.

“Not enemies, either,” he hastened to assure her. “They’re part the forensic anthropology team from the Jeffersonian, they tend to be a bit theatrical, but I guess you could say they’re colleagues, professional colleagues, I’m with the FB...” Aware that he was babbling, he trailed off with a sinking sensation. Sometimes working for the FBI attracted women’s attention, but in Shaw’s case it was obvious that he’d over-reached from the fact that she turned to stare at the windows where the silhouette of man was looking in.

Cars outside were making their cautious way down the darkened street. The silhouette vanished. Shaw went back to studying reflections. There were more sirens.

 _Finish your drink loser before it gets cold,_ Zeller told himself. _Oh, look at that; you already finished it. Must have evaporated. Have another._ He tried and failed to catch Kacey’s eye. _No, go home. Do not pass go. Do not collect two-hundred dollars._

Reese, meanwhile, had answered a call on his phone. Unlike Dr. Brennan he had the facility of pitching his voice under the ambient noise. When he hung up, he announced, “Metro’s out.”

“How long?” Zeller said. “I need to get home.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reese said, “We’ll see you get there. Stick around and let us buy you another drink.”

“Yeah,” Shaw said. “Stick around.” She leaned over and waved to Kasey, indicating refills for all three of them. That was nice of her, and thoughtful, Zeller thought. If the Metro was out that put the kibosh on his leaving for a while. Unless he caught a cab. In either case, why not? “Thank you,” he found himself saying. “I could use another.”

“You’re with the FBI,” Reese said. Zeller’s opened his eyes wide. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Shaw.”

“Yeah,” Zeller said. “Don’t worry; I’m not an agent…”

“I’m not worried,” Reese said, and displayed the same precise smile that he’d shown earlier. Was the man shy? _A shy spy?_

“…I am a pathologist. You stab ‘em; I slab ‘em.”

“I know a joke about pathologists,” Shaw said.

“If it’s about ducks, I already heard it and it’s a lame joke.”

Reese chuckled softly. “He got you, Shaw.” Maybe, Zeller thought as Kasey arrived to distribute the drinks and pull her vanishing act, he hadn’t considered all of his options.

And then Reese said, “Is someone trying to kill you, Dr. Zeller?”

Icy hands wrapped around his heart. He gripped the glass of hot whiskey with both hands and husked, “No! God, not me!”

“Are you sure?” Shaw said. “It looked to me like someone has been following you since you left the FBI building.”

Something cracked inside him. Scalding tears flooded his cheeks. He looked down, grateful for the darkness, and the two shielding him on either side.

 

 _Finis  
_ 11/23/2014

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the prompt 'John Reese walks into a bar and meets Brian Zeller.'


End file.
